


Good Getheny Thern

by bissonomy (Macdicilla)



Category: The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: Aliens, Cultural exchange, Family, Found Hearth, Gift based on prompt, New Year's Fluff, Other, So many OCs, TLHOD Secret Santa 2019, chapter 3 is just a chart of who's who because, stepfamily, they/them gethenians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21957289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/pseuds/bissonomy
Summary: Genly's Ekumen colleagues are having a get-together for Getheny Thern, the Gethenian new year. Estraven is invited, and so is Sorve, Estraven's child, who hasn't seen their parent since they were an infant in the year twenty-ago. Sorve has always wanted to meet their mother, but never expected other people to be there too.
Relationships: Genly Ai & Sorve Harth rem ir Estraven, Genly Ai/Therem Harth rem ir Estraven, Therem Harth rem ir Estraven & Sorve Harth rem ir Estraven
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	1. First Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * For [centrifugepolitics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centrifugepolitics/gifts).



It was nearing the end of the month of Grende, the last month of the year, and nearing the beginning of the month of Thern. It was nearing the end of the year One and the beginning of the year One. The closing year had been an eventful one for the Ekumenical Embassy in Ehrenrang, being its first year. It had only just been opened in the spring.

Eleven men and women had come down from the ship onto Gethenian soil. Two had gone to Sith, two to frozen Perunter, two to the Archipelago, three to Orgoreyn, and two to Karhide, where the Envoy, Genly Ai stayed also.

The two who joined him in Ehrenrang were a Hainishman and a half-Terran Cetian woman. The man’s name was Riwotebozurima Deneke Staola, a good Hainish pueblo name that meant interior of the barrel of the wave. Like most Hainishmen from his part of Hain, he preferred a short form for everyday use, but went by Ke’sta rather than translate it. He was a fellow of calm temperament, trained in history, about ten years older than Genly. The young Cetian woman was from Anarres, the moon of Urras. She was tall, sturdy-armed, and covered in fine brown fur. In the Anarresti tradition, hers was a short, unique, generated name, Tulier. Off Anarres, she went by her Terran mother’s surname, Tsivun.

There was nothing strange about a half-Terran. Among people of the Ekumen, it was common enough to be unsurprising for a person to have ancestors from more than one planet, and Terran Mobiles especially had something of a reputation for settling off-planet. There was an ancient joke about aviators and astronauts desperately trying to get out of Ohio. In thousands of years, the joke had only changed in that the entire planet Terra had replaced that lost kingdom in the punchline. 

Tsivun and Ke’sta would likely be staying on Gethen for eight or so years, but Genly had decided to stay for the rest of his life, and was duly lightly ribbed for his Terran ways. Of course the other two knew the real reason Genly had chosen to stay permanently on Gethen; Estraven worked with them at the Embassy as well. But Tsivun and Ke’sta liked to joke, on especially cold subzero days, that  _ this _ was the reason Genly liked the planet: That he simply  _ loved _ the snow and that, if you didn’t keep an eye on him, he would eat ice.

It was snowing  _ neserem _ on a particular day, a light blizzard, and it had started snowing while everyone in the embassy was indoors.

“Careful out there,” said Ke’sta to Genly, bundling himself up in his coat at the end of the day to walk home. “You might have too much fun.”

“I’ll try very hard not to,” Genly answered good-naturedly. Out of habit, he looked around the coat and boot room for Estraven, with whom he would always walk home, but they hadn’t come to the embassy that day. They’d been showing Sorve, who had arrived from Estre just a few days ago, around Ehrenrang. The youth had come up on holiday to visit their parent or, more aptly put, to meet their parent. Sorve had never seen Estraven before, and Estraven had seen Sorve but once, long ago.

Tsivun caught up to Genly before he could leave.

“I have considered that it might prove beneficial—” she began breathlessly, for she had been running, and then stopped, remembering that she was not speaking to a Karhider.

“Check the group chat, Genly,” she said.

“I check the embassy’s ansible channel every morning,” Genly answered piously.

Tsivun shook her head.

“The ship chat,” she said, “you know I mean the ship chat.”

Genly did not keep up with the ship chat, and he suspected that he was not alone among his former shipmates in neglecting it. It was hard to imagine, say, old Potebt or dour little Herel keeping up with a text channel where names changed constantly. Currently, it was titled something silly. Fede Valderrama, one of the Terran twins out in the Perunter Embassy, had changed it to “12 Aliens Walk Into A Snowdrift.” It would only be a matter of hours till Heo Hew woke up in Sith’s time zone and changed it back to whatever slightly more professional thing it had been before. It was a private channel, but she insisted they keep it classy.

“What’s going on in the ship chat?” Genly asked, having no intention of checking it himself.

“Otie Nim is throwing a New Year’s party next week,” she said, thinking with the seven-day week rather than the Anarresti decad or the Gethenian halfmonth. “On Opposthe Grende, at Ke’sta’s apartment. It’s meant to be a small event. Sort of like a ship reunion. Otie says we don’t really want to publicize it since we don’t want it to turn into an international conference. Or at least I think that’s what she meant when she said—”

Tsivun put on an affected posh Ioti accent to imitate her colleague from Urras.

“‘We’d have to invite scads of politicos. Goodness, imagine the catering! It would be a nightmare to organize.’”

Genly had forgotten what a posh Ioti accent sounded like. He had forgotten the voices of most of his colleagues during his time on Gethen and their time peacefully sleeping frozen in orbit. Seeing other single-gendered people when the lander had first come down had been a nauseating shock. At that time, it had been three years since he had seen his crewmates, and mere weeks since they had seen him. Now they were on slightly more equal footing, but getting reacquainted had still cost him effort. At times it felt, though he knew it wasn’t true, like they’d grown closer while he’d been on the ground. But they’d simply never grown apart in the first place. Around his fellow aliens, Genly felt like a child might feel when first meeting distant relatives who insisted they remembered him from age three. It was less so with Ke’sta and Tsivun now, since he saw them every day, but he still felt ambivalent about an apartment full of familiar strangers who knew him.

“Can I bring Estraven?” Genly asked.

“You can and you  _ must, _ ” Tsivun said, and though he couldn’t remember her voice, Genly could already imagine Otie Nim saying, ‘If you don’t bring them I shan’t ever speak to you again.’

As he was walking home, he realized that Estraven would also want to bring Sorve.

///

When the king revoked the decree of exile, it came as a personal relief to Sorve. No one in Estre had ever called Therem Harth a traitor, but people on the radio had made awful comments that infuriated and confused Sorve to no end. Sorve had never been a particularly close follower of politics, and didn’t understand the ins and outs of the border dispute up north or the full implications of joining a league of alien worlds, but with a fierce loyalty, they’d believed their mother wasn’t wrong and wished they knew why their mother was wasn’t wrong so as to tell everyone and shut up those people on the radio. The revocation of the exile was a vindication. It meant their mother was right after all. But they still didn’t understand why their mother had so completely, calmly, and willingly turned down membership in the kyorremy, even after the king had offered to make them prime minister again. They had always supposed that when they met their mother, they would understand everything, not just about their mother, but in general.

Sorve did not know their mother. Gran had raised Sorve. Though they had some memories of Arek from before age six, even before then, Gran had raised them. Mother couldn’t come back to Estre. It was not Sorve’s fault, but Sorve was the cause. Their mother was someone they’d only heard about on the news: that they’d joined the kyorremy, that they’d become prime minister, that they’d been exiled by the king, that the king had changed their mind.

Sometimes, there were letters, but the letters had come most frequently when Sorve was still quite young. By the time Sorve was of an age to be replying to letters, there were perhaps three per year, and Sorve had no talent for replying to letters. But after the king’s pardon and the offworlders’ landing, when a letter had come from their mother saying that they intended to send some journals down for the hearth’s archives, Sorve had replied at once:

What if I come to you?

Their mother had quickly written back,  _ yes! _ , adding that they couldn’t wait to see Sorve and that they would be the happiest man in the world if Sorve would come up as fast as they could. 

If you choose to leave as soon as this arrives, Mother wrote, you could be in Ehrenrang for New Year’s Day, and we could spend it together.

Mother sent money for the journey, annotated maps, telephone numbers, the lot. It was a reunion that Sorve had long thought about and finally, more easily than they had imagined, it was happening. It was a reunion that Sorve was looking forward to. Just the two of them together again, though it barely counted as an ‘again’, didn’t it? They couldn’t remember the first time.

**///**

During Sorve’s travel to the capital, Estraven tried to spend as little time as possible farther than three feet from the telephone. When they spoke on the phone, they sounded calm, but only after repeating to themselves, under their breath,  _ they’re twenty, they’re fine, they’re twenty, they’re fine,  _ several times before answering. Estraven had been twenty when they’d left home, after all, and that had been harder, and they’d been fine.

When Sorve telephoned to let Estraven know that they’d arrived in Ehrenrang, but that due to a matter of, ah, Sensitive Timing, they’d have to stop for a few days, Estraven simply recommended, in an indirect way, one of the city’s kemmerhouses. The one on Breweries street had good showers, they said, and left it at that. Estraven spent no time fretting about Sorve inside the building, but all their time fretting about whether they’d be there to greet Sorve when they came out. 

On the afternoon of the third day, Estraven spent hours in a hot drinks shop across the street, sipping a single mulled beer so slowly that it had become an iced one by the time they were done. Genly had brought some tapes to listen to in the meantime, to keep himself entertained, and didn’t see Estraven spring to their feet like a panther, but did see them bolt out the door. Genly followed at a more measured pace.

Genly could tell which of the clean, well-rested people coming out of the kemmerhouse was Sorve, even from a distance of several paces away, because they started running too the instant they saw Estraven running towards them. They seemed to recognise each other instantly, like when iron recognizes iron, and much in the same way, flung themselves together.

They were the same height, but Sorve was slight of frame, still light enough for Estraven to lift them slightly off their feet in a tight embrace. Both had the same dark, heavy brows and lashes, the same sharp noses on the same rounder faces, faces framed by dark hair that—

“Your hair is still wet!” the older Estraven said. “My poor Sorve, your hair is going to freeze! Were the dryers down?”

“No!” said Sorve, earnestly. “No, I was just in a rush to see you!”

They embraced again, and Estraven took their hand, guiding them down the sidewalk towards home. There was something Estraven said that the wintry wind carried away from Genly’s hearing, but that had Sorve loudly laughing.

“You sounded just like Gran Esvans for a second!” they said.

“So I did!” said Estraven, also laughing. “Well, they did raise me!”

“God, they probably gave us the same exact Last Advice,” Sorve said.

“Almost certainly. I remember I got the same Last Advice as— But it was good advice, you know, there was no reason for my mother not to reuse it. So, how fares the lord of Estre these days? How are their hips?”

“Honestly, much better since the chair. It’s helped a lot.”

“Good! That’s good to hear.”

They kept talking, quickly, excitedly. Sorve’s Kerm Land accent was strong, and while speaking to them, Estraven’s accent slipped back to Kerm Land too. It was a light-footed, leaping sort of talk compared to the slow, plain Ehrenrang tones; still recognizably Karhidish but with far more skipped vowels, and stresses on syllables you wouldn’t expect.

“It’s so strange finally meeting you!” Sorve exclaimed. “Strange and good! I don’t know what to call you. Maba makes me sound like a kid, mother’s stilted. Can I call you mom?”

“Yes!” cried Estraven immediately, sounding absolutely delighted. 

They would have said yes to absolutely anything Sorve suggested. It was a level of energy Genly had never seen Estraven at. He’d seen them happy, and he’d seen them enthusiastic, but the Estraven he recognized was a pensive speaker, one for whom every word rose out of a deeper silence. With Sorve, Estraven was ecstatic, extremely expressive, swift-speaking, and buoyant. It was rather sweet, Genly thought. He felt glad for the both of them.

He had nearly caught up to the pair ahead of him on the sidewalk when Sorve turned abruptly to their parent and said, sotto voce,

“If you look without turning around, I think there’s someone either following us, or trying to get past us on the sidewalk.”

“Oh! That’s Genly!” Estraven said. “I forgot to introduce you. Genly, meet my child, Sorve. Sorve, this is Genly. You’ve certainly heard about him. He’s my friend.”

Karhidish is a language where the word friend does heavy lifting. Said a certain way, it can imply a lover, a partner, a lifemate. Estraven said it this way, but Sorve didn’t seem to want to pick up on it.

“I see,” they said, eyes slightly narrowed, “but why is he here?”

**///**

Sorve didn’t know how to speak to the Terran, so they didn’t. It was not out of malice. Sorve was simply engrossed with their mother. It was exciting to get to know them and to discover what they had in common. There was an expression they both did, for example, a long slow blink where someone else might roll their eyes. Sorve saw their mother do this one evening when the Terran was serving dinner, which that night was a stew with a side of kadik grains. The Terran had thought the burner under the pot of kadik was turned off, but Sorve’s mother had pointed out that it was only on low, and that it had started to smoke.

The Terran had rushed to turn it off, saying,

“Ah, right! Thanks for saving my life again,”

And then Sorve’s mother did that long slow eye blink that Sorve also did, but it wasn’t in annoyance, it was  _ fondly _ .

That made Sorve feel a bit strange, like an outsider, but they didn’t want to let it get to them. Over dinner, they talked about other things. Whenever Genly was speaking to Sorve’s mother, Sorve would join the conversation too, but take it over, and by the end it would be just Sorve and Estraven talking, as it ought to be. 

_ He _ —because even if the aliens weren’t really permanently in kemmer and were capable of acting normally, they were still permanently gendered—either didn’t notice, or didn’t mind. That was fine by Sorve, because they weren’t trying to make him mind. Why would he mind, anyway?  _ He _ didn’t have to go back anywhere after the holidays. If Sorve bothered him, he could just wait a little, and then he’d have Sorve’s mother’s undivided attention again. 

Sorve decided to make the most of their time with their mother. Sorve wanted to make a good impression on them, and knew they wouldn’t do this by moping about feeling like an outsider, so they tried to stay in very high spirits and find plenty of things to do.

**///**

Estraven took holiday leave from the Embassy early. Sorve got  _ so _ restless while they were at work, and Estraven decided it would be good to show Sorve around Ehrenrang—the usual sights: the part of the king’s compound open to the public, the ports, the frozen pond in Meandering Bridge park, the music museum. They were getting to know each other, and enjoying each other’s company. In the rare few moments Genly and Estraven had alone, Estraven told him all about it.

“We have the same mannerisms, have you noticed?” Estraven said. “There’s a particular way they blink sometimes, you know? I do that too.”

“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” Genly lied.

“Except they’re more wild than me, I think,” Estraven continued. “I can hardly keep up. I don’t know if they’re like that all the time. I hope not. But it’s their first time out of Estre, their first time not around anyone they have to answer to. So I understand. It’s the excitement.”

“They don’t see you as someone they answer to?”

“No! But why would they? My mother was the one who played the role of mother to them, not me. I was away.”

Estraven found themselves thinking more and more about a parallel life where they hadn’t been away. It wouldn’t have been their own life. So much of what had happened in Estraven’s life to shape their person had happened after they’d left Estre. The person who would have stayed would have become someone else, not Estraven. Estraven wasn’t particularly good with young children, but the person who would have stayed might have been. That person would have seen Sorve grow up, would have taught them walking and skating and speaking and the Handdara art of Presence (though, would that other Therem have ever indwelt at the fastness?), would have given them that last sledge push on the shoulders for good luck when they came of age.

But there wasn’t another Therem. There was, once, another Harth rem ir Estraven, Therem’s sibling, who had been given the chance to do all these things, and he had died instead, and now haunted Therem’s memories and imaginings of that other life in Estre, a presence always around the corner. It was painful. It was strange. It made them feel adrift. But seeing Sorve in real life was a balm on the pain, as long as they kept their mind on the present and the future. 

Whenever they’d imagined Sorve before meeting them, they’d imagined them differently. Sorve as a baby had been small and weary, with a touch of jaundice, born a halfmonth early. Grown Sorve on the other hand, twenty years later, was strong and healthy and full of boundless energy. It was difficult to keep up with the energy, but Estraven tried, and hoped their child didn’t find them dull. Estraven was both immensely tense and over every possible moon; both focused and unfocused. 

Everything was at once relentlessly familiar and relentlessly unfamiliar.

///

Around Genly, Sorve was nothing like the exuberant, energetic person that Estraven described. But it was only natural for Sorve to be more comfortable around their own parent than around a complete stranger, a person from another world, Genly reasoned. Sorve was exceedingly formal with him. Not aloof, but certainly private and withdrawn. In good faith, Genly had taken this for shyness, and had kept his respectful distance, not wanting to impose.

It wasn’t entirely shyness.

One night, late at night, Sorve and Estraven had sat up on the couch that was where Sorve slept, listening to a radio play, and had fallen asleep there together, curled up like a nest of pesthry, Sorve’s head on Estraven’s stomach. Genly had woken Estraven up gently and asked them if they would not rather move to the bed, which was wider and more comfortable. But Sorve had woken up too, and gotten up to follow.

“We can’t all fit on the bed, love,” Estraven had told them. “Where would Genly sleep? He’d fall off the side.”

“He could sleep on the couch instead,” Sorve had answered, completely in earnest.

If Estraven noticed this behavior, they didn’t comment. It was possible they didn’t feel it was their place to comment. Their baby was an adult now, with their own shadow, too old to advise. It was also possible they hadn’t taken note at all. They’d been in a strange mental space these days. That night, Estraven had laughed as though their child had just told a very good deadpan joke, and wished them a good night, and sent them back to the living room.

Genly took none of this personally, but wished he could help the young person feel more welcome, more at ease, without forcing the young person to do what they seemed so reluctant to do, which was speak to him.

///

It was during a conversation among the three of them, or between Genly and Estraven and between Estraven and Sorve, that something finally surfaced. They were in the apartment sitting around the table after dinner. It was the evening before the day of Otie Nim’s holiday party. Estraven had then, for Sorve’s benefit, and not as advice, of course, just for academic purposes, asked Genly to talk more about his colleagues and their planets and some of the social dynamics among single-gendered people.

“No thanks,” Sorve answered. “I can pick it up as I go along.”

“But you’ve asked me a lot of times,” Estraven said. “You’ve asked me about people beyond the stars and I’ve answered as best I could. Don’t you want to know more?”

Sorve hesitated.

“Oh, but I don’t—I don’t want to waste Mr. Ai’s time,” they said. 

They realized it didn’t ring sincere at all. Their parent was watching them with a strange expression.

“He has plenty of time to spare,” Estraven said.

“Even so,” tried Sorve, scratching their arm nervously. “Perhaps later we can talk about all that. I don’t— maybe later.”

“We don’t have to,” Genly said gently. “It’s all right.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t go to the party at all,” Sorve blurted out, rising to their feet. “I wanted to, but what was I thinking? These are interplanetary ambassadors, very serious people, probably all much older than me. Perhaps we should stay home, do our own celebration.”

“We can stay home,” Genly answered. “They’re not all old and serious, but if you want to, we can stay home.”

“No!” said Sorve. “I meant—I meant—If I go, I’ll be the extra person, out of place all over again.”

“What do you mean, again?” Estraven asked.

“Ah, I,” said Sorve, “I think I’ve said too much.”

Then they left to lie down in the dark living room.

After a while, Estraven followed them.

///

Time moves differently during the holidays. It moves faster, even in a place like Karhide, so unaccustomed to haste. The moment was not discussed. It was thought about by everyone involved, but only in silence.

///

The night of the party, Sorve decided to join after all. The three of them got ready at home. Genly warned them that Ke’sta’s apartment would probably be kept rather warm, since he was newer to this world, so under their coats, they got dressed in spring hiebs rather than fur-lined winter ones. Since Sorve had only packed for winter, they borrowed one of their parent’s. It was a light yellowish-peach colour, and it suited Sorve quite well. Their parent certainly thought so.

“Very dashing,” Estraven commented, adjusting the garment on Sorve’s shoulders, even though it did not need to be adjusted.

“You can keep this one, if you like, Sorve,” they murmured. “You know everything that is mine is yours.”

“Oh,” Sorve said. “Thank you.”


	2. The Party

They showed up to Ke’sta’s apartment the night of Opposthe Grende, just around nightfall. It wasn’t a long walk from the embassy, which wasn’t a long walk from Estraven’s home, but in the lengthening purplish light of evening in an unfamiliar city, it seemed farther to Sorve. The island building that held Ke’sta’s apartment was on the large side, but Ke’sta’s apartment was only three flights of stairs up, and Genly seemed to know the way.

The one who opened the door was Lang Heo Hew, another Terran, whose posting had been to Sith.

“Hello, Heo Hew,” said Genly.

“Genly!” she cried. “It’s been ages.”

She hugged him briefly but tightly, and then turned to the two Gethenians.

“Now, one of you is Estraven, right?”

“We both are, actually. But I’m Therem Harth rem ir Estraven and this is my child, Sorve Harth rem ir Estraven.”

“And it’s a pleasure to meet both of you,” said Heo Hew smoothly. “Come in! Come in!”

She took their coats and set them on a bed in a dark, empty room, and then led them to a bright, crowded living room.

Sorve found it abrupt, the transition from the pleasantly nipping chill of the outdoors to the bakery-like warmth of the indoors; from the dark of the night to the bright and colorful glow of the apartment; from the simple sound of the wind to the multiple voices chattering inside. 

There were introductions, but they seemed to happen in a haze. A coppery-skinned middle-aged person called Ke’sta was shaking their hand Terran-style and welcoming them to his apartment, while Genly and Estraven went around the living room, greeting the people there. These were very different kinds of people, and they all seemed delighted to meet Estraven and Sorve. By the time Sorve had gotten their bearings in the room, Genly and Estraven had gone off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Potebt,” said an extremely tall, extremely hairy person in a deep, deep voice.

“Right,” answered Sorve, “ah…”

“It’s how we greet each other on Anarres,” the person said kindly. “I say my name, you say yours.”

“Harth,” said Sorve, slightly dazed. The person had so  _ much _ hair. It was brown, and turning white around their temples and their—their  _ eyes _ , they were completely covered in it. They wore simple clothes as well, over their thin fur, and Sorve thought they must be  _ stewing _ in there, the poor alien, unless they were a sort that got cold easily, in which case they were probably fine.

“Good to meet you,” the person from Anarres said. “You are Estraven’s child, yes? I’m posted to the Archipelago, but my grown child is posted to Karhide, and works with your parent. You may have met her.”

“Is she your child?” Sorve asked, looking at a furry green person by the drinks table, who stood only three feet high, the same height as the drinks table.

“Not likely,” replied the short person, turning around. “I’m older than him, and a different species. But no offense taken.”

“ _ She _ is my friend, Doctor Herel,” said Potebt. “My child is Tsivun. What are you trying to get, Doctor Herel?”

“A stepstool,” the small green-furred woman grumbled.

“I think Ke’sta keeps the one that he uses in the kitchen. I’ll find it. And in the interim?”

“A pine soda,” Herel said.

Potebt poured her a pine soda, and then poured one for himself.

“Thank you, old man,” she said.

Herel smiled, and Sorve got the distinct impression she didn’t often do so.

“And you, young person, do you drink?” he asked Sorve.

“Ah, alcohol or just in general?”

“Either! Heo Hew and Herel just came in from Sith,” Potebt said. “They’ve brought several jars of lifewater. Two non-drinkers in charge of the lifewater, eh? But there are also other beverages. There’s a bowl of mulled beer in the study, I hear. There’s also pine soda and cold, sweetened orsh. And water, of course.”

“Orsh, please,” said Sorve, and Potebt handed him a red cup.

Another tall, hairy person entered the room. Their hair was also thin and brown, but a sandier color, and hadn’t started greying like Potebt’s. They wore a delicate, sort chain around their neck, so that a tiny blue bead rested in the indentation of their furry collarbone, which was exposed, along with their small breasts, for they wore no shirt. Instead, they wore a skirt with a wide band that came up past the bottom of their ribcage, and the fabric of the skirt seemed to shimmer between light blue and deep blue.

“Sorry I didn’t come out to greet you, dear,” the new person said. “I was fixing Atto’s hair for her. It got caught in something and completely undid itself.”

Sorve stared blankly.

“Goodness, I ought to make name tags! The shipmates all know each other but you don’t know most of us!”

The person was already holding a thin stack of sticker paper, and with the red felt pen in their left hand, they began to write their own name in delicate vertical Karhidish script.

“Otie Nim,” Sorve read. “You have nice handwriting.”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” said Otie, sticking the name tag directly on their furry chest. 

Theirs was a sweet, tinkling voice, and every other word sounded like they were about to laugh, but in a pleasant, convivial way, never mocking.

“It’s pure practice,” the person continued. “I used to have such dreadful script when I was younger. The teachers told me I wrote like a malechild.”

Otie said this with a bit of a smirk, a conspiratorial acknowledgement that the joke didn’t work as well because this wasn’t a word in Karhidish, but a word they had just mashed together. It dawned on Sorve that they were speaking to a woman.

“Malechildren don’t write well?” Sorve asked, confused.

“They can,” said Otie breezily, “but oftentimes, I’m not sure they want to. Let me make you a name tag. What shall I put down?”

“Harth Estraven,” Sorve said.

The woman’s eyes widened.

“You’re Estraven? Estraven the Hero? My, but you look so young!”

“Oh!” said Sorve. “No, you’re thinking of my mother. They’re the one who rescued your envoy.”

“Your mother,” mused Otie. “Yes. I never made that connection. I was told he— _ they  _ were bringing their grown child, but I don’t know why I didn’t… Well, it comes of speaking Karhidish but still thinking Hainish, doesn’t it?”

There was a subtext to her words that Sorve couldn’t understand, and so ignored.

“Anyway, two Harth Estravens in the house!,” she said. “I’m sure we’re very lucky.”

“I guess we’ll have to use given names,” Sorve said. “I’m Sorve, in that case, and my mother’s Therem.” 

It felt strange, using given names around people who weren’t hearth or friend, but at least these strangers were friendly.

“Which of your names should I call you?” asked Sorve.

“Otie will do,” she said breezily. “I don’t let people call me Dr. Nim, and nobody calls me Otewa. Otie will do. All of us off-worlders are going to be using first names. I wouldn’t like to think we were leaving you out by imposing formality on you.”

She wrote down Sorve Estraven on their name tag, and it amused Sorve a little to be called only by given name and landname, like someone from the olden days when history and story were the same. With another swish of her pen, she made a name tag for Therem Estraven as well.

“It’ll embarrass them if I write ‘The Hero’ on theirs, won’t it?” she said conspiratorially. “So I shan’t. But where are they? I’ve got to meet them! And give them their name tag, of course!”

“In the kitchen, I think,” answered Sorve. “With their, um—with Genly.”

They liked the sound of Otie calling their mother Estraven the Hero. It was balm on their soul on the wound of all those months of hearing their mother called traitor on the radio. It felt exactly as good as it felt when the king themselves had retracted the order of exile. It was refreshing. Everyone in this apartment was so thoroughly happy to receive Estraven, but it didn’t just seem to be about Estraven’s reputation. They were acting as if Estraven were supposed to be one of them. It was a curious thought.

Sorve wandered around a bit, looking at the decor of Ke’sta’s apartment. There was hemmen hung up here and there, and it put them in mind of something, but they weren’t sure what. There was also, over the lintel of the doorway between the living room and the study, a hand-drawn picture of an alien plant with green leaves and white berries. Sorve stood in front of the doorway, examining it.

A youngish person carrying a platter of—white fish? Something smooth and light-colored cut into squares—also stopped in front of the doorway, on the same side.

“We don’t have to kiss!” the person said.

“Excuse me?” said Sorve.

“We can if you like, but we don’t have to. It’s a Terran thing, apparently,” the person answered. “But Heo Hew says it’s the sort of tradition that’s, you know, for fun rather than sacred. Also that she didn’t put it up. None of the Terrans put it up, actually! Because Genly’s only just arrived and the ‘ _ miss al-thoe’ _ was here before that, and the Valderrama twins—Hernan and Fede, I don’t think you’ve met them—couldn’t get a boat back from Perunter this time of year. It might have been one of the Cetians.”

“The Cetians,” repeated Sorve blankly.

“Like from Urras-Anarres,” the young person said.

“Right,” said Sorve. “Look, I waive shifgrethor, you can explain.”

The person looked a bit puzzled, and absently tapped their gold-painted nails against the bottom of the platter.

“Sure. But I’d have thought they’d have told you. I mean, Tsivun’s Anarresti, and you work with her. And you can always tell when a Cetian is Anarresti because, and I say this lovingly, they’ll tell you. Her, um, her notmother, Potebt, and I are working out in the Archipelago, and one day, he says to me—”

“I don’t work with Tsivun,” Sorve said, and didn’t add,  _ and I have no idea of anything you’re on about. _ “I’m the other Estraven, the younger one.”

“Oh!” the person with the platter exclaimed. “Then you’re—right, you must be Sorve! Someone said you were coming. I’m sorry, I don’t have my glasses on. They were interfering with the silly hat.”

Sorve looked the alien up and down and saw no hat.

“I took the hat off,” the alien explained sheepishly. “It was interfering with my glasses. I’m Liuperoo, by the way.”

Liuperoo set the platter down on a low-lying table in the study, sat down on a cushion on the floor, and invited Sorve to sit down too. He—for Liuperoo was a he—explained as much as he could about the other people at the party, and the planets they came from. He himself was a botanist from the garden planet, Beldene. Another of the shipmates was an older woman called Ong Tot, who was from kind, humid Chiffewar, and she was working in the embassy in Orgoreyn with Otie, who was a Cetian woman—Cetians were the hairy, tall ones—from Urras, and she was the one who had brought the cheese.

“ _ This _ is what cheese is, by the way,” Liuperoo went on, gesturing to the white squares Sorve was snacking on. “And that’s the difference between Urras and Anarres. Urrasti people don’t like to do without the finer things in life. Otie’s personal cryo bin had champagne, cured meats, fish eggs, twelve silk scarves—though she insists it was only seven—and, well, you get the idea. The thing barely closed. Potebt, on the other hand, he’s Anarresti and his personal bin had one copy of Odo’s  _ The Analogy _ , and one single pen. That’s it. That’s all. And his grown child, Tsivun, only brought a little box with a scroll in it to put on her door frame. It’s a Terran thing. I think it’s called a  _ ‘methuselah _ ?’ She told me about it, but I forgot. Her mother was Terran. Am I going too fast? Do you like the cheese?”

“Yes,” said Sorve, who by now had had plenty of it.

“I’ll slow down, sorry!”

“I meant about the cheese,” they clarified. “How does it grow? I thought it might be a fish, but it’s not a flesh texture, so it’s almost certainly a mushroom, yes?”

“Oh, it’s coagulated milk,” Liuperoo said.

Sorve froze, an expression of horror on their face.

“ _ Wh-whose _ ?” they stammered.

“Oh, goodness, no!” Liuperoo said, laughing. “Sorry! I should have said. It’s from an animal!”

**///**

In the kitchen, Tsivun was cooking up some kind of purple vegetable fritter. The short, thin brown fur on her face was neatly brushed, and clipped to the back of her head was a flat little hat. She wore a dark blue work shirt tucked into trousers, and one of Ke’sta’s aprons over it all. The apron was patterned with Hainish fruits and grains, and now, with flecks of oil from the pan. She was so focused on her work that she didn’t hear Genly come in, and jumped a bit when he wished her a good Getheny Thern.

“Genly!” she said pleasantly in response.

“Ah, you’re both here, yes!” she added, seeing Estraven too. “Excellent!”

“Aha! You, I already know. Hello, Tsivun,” Estraven said. “What are you making?”

“Kyossatha pancakes,” she said.

“A dessert?”

“Nope!” she said cheerfully. “They’re savory. I’ve grated them up with eggs and onions. They’re coming out well. Would you like to try one?”

“You’ve...grated kyossathas?” Estraven asked.

“Yep!” she said. “Not easy, with all the fibers, but it’s the closest thing to a potato once you take the fibers out. A bit closer to a sweet potato, but still.”

Estraven tried one of purple fritters, and despite burning their tongue a little, found them quite nice.

“Oh!” said Genly, “I think I know what these are. Do I wish you a happy hanukkah?”

Tsivun shook her head.

“Thank you! But no. Wrong time of year for it. The jcal channel on the ansible says purim’s next week. Easy mistake, though. You’d be the second person to wish me a happy one. Atto did just now, and when I told her that was a different time of year, the poor girl looked like she’d been shot. As for these,” she added, “Latkes  _ were _ the initial idea, but the texture is completely different. Still, who else will know? We can pretend. No hope of applesauce, but there might be sour cream in Otie’s secret larder.”

“ _ My _ secret larder, dear?” a voice said from the entrance of the kitchen.

A transformation came over Tsivun. Her eyes lit up and she simultaneously tried to stand up straighter and look more laid-back. Otie stood in the doorway.

“Nice face,” Tsivun said. “I mean, I see you’ve grown out your hair. It’s a good look. You’d fit right in on the moon.”

This was partly true. Anarresti Cetian women tended not to bother with shaving their fur, while Urrasti Cetian women, particularly those of high class, tended to prefer a bald-faced, bald-headed, bald-bodied look. But there was no way Otie would be inconspicuous among the anarchists. The luxury of her attire was the sort of thing considered extravagant, excremental. It was the sort of thing an Anarresti ought to criticize. Tsivun refrained.

“A little fur helps with the cold, I find,” Otie said modestly. “Now, Genly, won’t you introduce me to Estraven? I’ve been dying to meet them.”

Genly obliged, and the three of them began to talk. The woman’s manner and voice reminded Estraven one of the Commensals they had known. It occurred to Estraven, not altogether generously, that this was why she had been a good fit for the Ekumen Embassy in Mishnory. It was perfectly fine to be more manner than substance in Orgoreyn. But she was kind to them, and to Genly, and they were able to appreciate that.

“And now,” said Otie, “let me introduce you to everyone else.”

///

Two other people had come into the study, both women. One Terran, one ki’O, one sober, one not. Heo Hew, the Terran woman, seemed to be a bit older than Genly, and was carrying a stack of cups and a jar of lifewater. Atto looked to be about in her mid twenties, and kept trying to hold the lifewater for her, which Heo Hew was keeping away from her. They stopped their conversation briefly to greet Liuperoo and Sorve, and then went right back to it.

“It  _ is _ more difficult, though,” Atto was saying. “It’s more difficult to get one person to like you than it is to get two people, or three people. That’s why it’s easier on O.”

“ _ Is _ it easier?”

Atto nodded intently.

“It’s a lot easier,” she said. “You all know you need four people. So you don’t need to go up to one person and ask them out alone. You can go up to a couple first and then ask the one person out, the three of you together. And it doesn’t just apply to romance! It’s like how it’s easier to make friends with people who are already friends with each other. It’s not one-and-another or two-and-another-two, and not three-and-a-fourth, see? It’s a four of you. You’re married to two of them and family-friends with the third. It’s four marriages and two not-marriages. That’s why it’s easier.”

“What are we talking about?” Liuperoo asked.

“Sedoretu,” Hew Hew answered. “She’s telling me marriage is easier with two men and two women than it is with any two people.”

“Oh no, no,” Atto said solemnly, with an exaggerated shake of the head. The gesture seemed to set her off balance and she sat down on the couch with a plop.

“It’s the year 1490-98,” Atto preached. “About to be 1490-99. And we’re not on O anymore. It can be two men and two women, or three men and a woman, or one man and three women, or four women.”

“But not four men?” asked Heo Hew, amused.

“Well, not  _ my _ sedoretu,” Atto said, fanning her hand over her chest in the exaggerated manner of the rather tipsy, “I can’t be in a four man marriage.”

“Better luck next month!” said Sorve.

Atto peered at them for a second, and then realized they’d been joking, and she didn’t have to explain anything.

“Ha!” she said, a little too loudly. “Ha! Ha!”

She grabbed herself a little plate from the stack, piled it with cheeses from Liuperoo’s platter, and offered it to Heo Hew.

“Thank you,” said Heo Hew, “but I’m still not going to marry you.”

Atto huffed.

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong again,” she said. “ _ You _ don’t go marry  _ me _ . We can be one of the two not-marriages. You just help me ask Tsivun out.”

“By...also asking her out, separately,” said Heo Hew. “Right.”

“Right!” cried Atto, beaming. “You’ve got it!”

“I don’t want to go out with Tsivun  _ either _ , though,” said Heo Hew gently.

“Oh,” Atto said, crestfallen.

“I’ll help you,” Liuperoo offered brightly.

Atto’s eyes brimmed with emotion.

“You would do that for me? You’re the best friend in the world. Let’s drink to that.”

“Oh dear,” muttered Heo Hew, watching as Atto poured herself, Liuperoo, and Sorve each a dram of lifewater.

“Tsivun has a thing for Otie,” Liuperoo said, “so there’s our four people.”

“Ooh,” said Atto. “That’s good information. You’re picking this up quickly.”

“No Beldenean has ever been able to figure out monogamy,” Liuperoo admitted, “but I think I can be the first to figure out tetragamy.”

“Well, it’s not  _ quite _ like that, see,” Atto was going on, “because not all of the people are married to each other, see—” and she went on explaining what sounded to be a complicated thing while Liuperoo nodded in rapt, uncomprehending attention and Heo Hew shared a thin, commiserating smile with Sorve, who was sipping at their lifewater and trying to make sense of Atto’s talk.

///

Otie led Estraven and Genly to the study, to meet the people there.

“What is that picture up there?” asked Estraven, pointing their head up to the drawing of the plant that hung on the doorway.

“Oh god, someone put up mistletoe,” Genly said.

“Apparently, it’s for kissing under,” Otie explained, “but it isn’t mandatory.”

“Huh,” said Estraven. “And it’s a Terran tradition?”

“Apparently,” she said.

The two younger offworlders in the study were, as Otie explained, assistants to the ambassadors, rather than ambassadors themselves. The young man, Liuperoo, worked with Potebt in the Archipelago, and Atto was her own assistant in Orgoreyn. 

They greeted Estraven with reverence and enthusiasm, and Sorve realized what the hemmen hung up around Ke’sta’s apartment reminded them of. They’d witnessed someone join a hearth by vow a few years ago, when Detres Harth, a third or fourth cousin of theirs, had come back to Estre from counting water-crawling insects in the Horden summer-marshes (or whatever their studies were about) with a classmate turned kemmering in tow. The whole hearth had turned out to welcome the stranger Detres loved. Every surface was swept and every roofbeam and balustrade was garlanded with pink boughs of hemmen. The way Genly’s colleagues were receiving Estraven, Sorve thought to themselves, was like a hearth-joining. 

“And this is Sorve!” Atto said triumphantly, swaying slightly, introducing Sorve to their own parent.

Sorve and Estraven made eye contact, both trying not to smile.

“They’ve met, dear,” said Otie, and Atto’s mouth went round, realizing her mistake.

“But I’m glad you’re letting your hair down,” she added gently, “that’s nice every now and then, isn’t it?”

Heo Hew gave Genly a look that said, please save me from the under-thirties. He nodded at her.

“Let’s go put on some music,” Genly said to Heo Hew.

“Let’s go meet the people in the living room,” Estraven said to Otie.

///

To Estraven’s relief, the people gathered in the living room seemed to be an older, more sedate crowd. They recognized Ke’sta, whom they knew from the embassy. Ke’sta waved calmly to Estraven, and offered them a seat next to Ong Tot, a plump, dark-eyed Chiffewarian woman. She wore a warm-looking hat over her head, and after a second, Estraven noticed this was because she had no hair at all, not even brows or lashes. On the other side of Ke’sta sat a tall Cetian man who seemed to have gotten far better luck in the hair department. He introduced himself as Potebt. 

“And you’ve met my child,” Potebt added.

“Tsivun? Yes. I work with her in the embassy.”

“Wonderful! And this is my friend, Doctor Herel,” Potebt explained, gesturing at a small, green woman. “She’s from Athshe.”

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “I am.”

“Which embassy are you with?” Estraven asked.

“I’m in Sith with Heo Hew,” she answered, and didn’t add anything.

Estraven liked her immediately.

“Doctor Herel and Heo Hew brought the lifewater,” Otie said, trying to prompt conversation. “How was the flight, by the way?”

“Fine,” said Herel. “Thank you.”

“Would any of you like a drink?” Otie asked.

“Oh, don’t go fetch us drinks,” said Ong Tot. “Sit down and chat.”

So she did, and Estraven listened to them without adding much. The two women were reminiscing about what they called their fieldwork days. Otie insisted that Karhide hadn’t changed much in the past fifty-three years, and Ong Tot said, ever calm and respectful, that it had, in small ways, if you knew how to look, and Otie had spent most of her time in Orgoreyn anyway.

“Fifty-three years,” Estraven said gravely. The two of them had been to Gethen before Estraven’s own birth, and were chatting here in front of them as if it were an unremarkable fact.

“Yes, because of the—“ began Otie, and then she caught herself, embarrassed. “You already know about NAFAL travel and time jumps, of course. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”

“No matter,” said Estraven, and they wondered how much of their lives the two of them had sacrificed to time-jumping, how many years they had missed in order to visit Gethen twice, to invite the planet into the Ekumen. The two women must believe in the league of worlds intensely, wholeheartedly. In this, they had something in common with Estraven.

“I myself was born two hundred years ago,” Ong Tot said, placidly. “No, I don’t read minds. I’ve seen that look on many faces, on many planets. And Otie was born—“

“Oh, hush!” Otie laughed. “A lady’s age is secret!”

Otie was telling another story about her fieldwork days now, about a time when she had desperately ansible-messaged Ong Tot, asking what her what she should do, because she had been mistaken for a pregnant person, and she hadn’t realized that she’d been getting special treatment for four months, and that her hosts were getting anxious for her nonexistent baby, which didn’t seem to be growing.

“Yes, I remember that!” Ong Tot said. “They kept dropping hints to you about the hospital, and you’d thought they were trying to get you to study medicine.”

“Yes, yes, because it was a teaching hospital. Students register as dependents of their schools in Orgoreyn, so I thought my hosts were telling me nicely to move out of their place. I even sat in on a lecture! And I got back to the hosts and said I’d had a wonderful time at the hospital and they congratulated me on my baby being alive. I didn’t even realize they’d thought I was pregnant! That’s what you get from sending an endocrinologist to do an anthropologist’s work. Out of us three investigators, you were the most prepared for this one, dear. Tinibossol was an urban planner.”

“Poor Tinibossol,” Ong Tot said.

At this, Otie’s light, airy manner turned heavy and serious for the first time that night. Her gaze fell to the fluted glass she held in her hands. Ong Tot went quiet too. Tinibossol had died here on Gethen, as it turned out. The two didn’t go much into detail when they spoke of their absent friend, but Estraven was able to pick up the gist of what had happened. The man had been killed by the elements in the year fifty-three-ago on this world that was alien to both of these women, doing the same job that they were doing, and still they had returned. They had a sense of duty to common humanity on a planet to which they owed nothing. Estraven had a mental image of two substantial shadows.

///

The music Genly and Heo Hew put on had drawn the younger crowd into the living room, and Sorve followed. They found themselves sitting at old Potebt’s feet, watching people dance. His green friend had gone to another room to take a nap (she had a different sort of sleep cycle, he explained) and so Potebt had found himself alone in this calm, quiet corner of the room, half tucked behind a bookshelf. 

This was nice for Sorve. It gave them a chance to catch their breath. They were beginning to feel a little strange, like their stomach was stirring. They supposed it was because they were nervous, but they didn’t feel nervous. And they hadn’t had all that much to drink. Perhaps it was hunger, they thought, and served themselves a few more small slices of bread topped with cheese.

Otie  _ had  _ had a little more to drink, apparently. She had taken off her tall shoes to dance more steadily some minutes ago, and now she flung herself on the couch next to Potebt with a complete lack of grace.

“In theory,” she was asking in a whisper, “what would it mean if somebody, not anybody in particular, called me  _ anmar _ and  _ economic materialist  _ in the span of two minutes? Would that be considered mixed signals? Does she hate me? Does she not?”

“Really?” Potebt said, staring. “My child called you  _ anmar?” _

This was a Pravic word that Anarresti used as a term of address between siblings, comrades, lovers, friends. 

“Yes,” Otie answered glumly, “ _ and _ an economic materialist.”

“But you  _ are _ an economic materialist,” Potebt pointed out. “That part’s not subjective. You say she called you  _ anmar?” _

“Yes, but—“

Potebt, still a bit stunned, said,

“That’s…certainly much to think about.”

“But isn’t the other thing quite negative for you all on the moon?”

“Yes. But there are worse things to be,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about what she thinks of you as long as she’s not calling you a profiteer. You’re not a profiteer, are you?”

“I joke,” he added. “I know you’re not. Though it’s not clear what one person intends to do with twelve silk scarves. A single person can’t wear them all at the same time. But I know you didn’t bring them here to sell to Gethenians.”

“No,” agreed Otie earnestly. “Twelve scarves and twelve shipmates. They’re presents, for when birthdays come round. I’ve wrapped them.”

“Twelve includes yourself,” observed Potebt after a pause.

Otie peered at him curiously.

“Of course I got one for myself!”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” the old man said wryly, “you economic materialist.”

This answer seemed to satisfy her, and she thanked him before pattering off back to the other side of the room to rejoin Tsivun and Atto’s dancing.

///

A short while later, Sorve found themselves back in the study to get snacks. Liuperoo, the chatty Beldenean, was wandering back into the room with Ke’sta alongside him. To be more exact, he was somewhat draped over Ke’sta. He seemed to have eels for bones.

“Do you know who’sh—who’s actually  _ very _ funny?” Liuperoo asked Ke’sta.

“Who is?”

“Herel. You wouldn’t expect it! I was asking her about what holidays there were back home for her and she said  _ none _ and then I said  _ really?  _ and she said,  _ no, of course there are! Got you!  _ Ha! _ ” _

“Yes,” answered Ke’sta, patiently setting his drunk friend down on the couch. “Herel can be funny when she wants.”

Liuperoo pulled a face and swatted at the strip of glossy fabric he wore tied around his neck in a complicated, many-looped bow as if it were feeling too tight. Ke’sta saw the gesture, and began to untie it for him.

“Oh dear,” Liuperoo said. “Look, I’m very flattered, Ke’sta, but we shouldn’t. I’m engaged to three people now. Two of them don’t know yet, but it still counts!”

“I’m only loosening your ribbon thing so you don’t choke,” Ke’sta explained gently.

“I see,” answered Liuperoo, in a tone of voice that could only be called crestfallen. This mood only lasted for a second, and then he perked right up. “Do you know there’s  _ also _ holidays on Beldene?” he asked, as if he were offering a fascinating fact.

“Tell me more,” Ke’sta said, pressing a glass of water into Liuperoo’s hands.

“No, no,” he said. “You tell me about Hain first.”

“You’ve  _ been _ to Hain.”

Liuperoo grinned.

“Yes, but not all of it. So you have to tell me about the rest of Hain.”

“What, all of Hain? All three million years of it?”

“Three million years?” exclaimed Sorve.

Neither of the men had noticed Sorve was in the room, but they didn’t seem to be startled. Liuperoo was too boneless at the moment to jump, and Ke’sta had a permanent sense of gravity and control.

“Three million years,” Ke’sta said. “The ancient Hainish put humans all over the galaxy, and they became all different sorts of people.”

He frowned at himself for a second.

“No, ‘became,’ absolves them too much for their strange genetic tinkering.”

“Strange is just the start of it!” cried Liuperoo from the couch, where he was lying down now. “I’ve always wondered why your ancestors made my ancestors so…so…”

“Yes?”

“Extravagantly beautiful.”

“Did they really?” asked Sorve, and Liuperoo started giggling.

///

In the corridor, Herel and Potebt crossed paths. He nodded at her in acknowledgement and headed back towards the living room, but she stopped, and tugged at his hand. It was a gesture which would have been cute and endearing had she not done it in a stonefaced, matter-of-fact way. Her time on other worlds had taught her how other humantypes viewed smaller people, and she had developed a stern demeanor, not out of bitterness, but to counteract what was termed the Teddy Bear Response. With some of her colleagues, even when all of them treated her with respect, she got the sense that they were occasionally holding back coos and awws. But never with Potebt. He was completely normal. She considered him a friend.

“We are under the drawing of the Terran kissing plant,” she informed him.

“So we are,” he said. “Otie’s trap. A silly thing.”

“Very silly,” Herel agreed. “Nevertheless…”

“Nevertheless?” Potebt said, a smile creeping into his face.

“As a token of friendship,” she said, “on the cheek. It’s the holidays. I’m sentimental.”

“Certainly,” he said. 

She was older than him, but he was tall, even for a Cetian, and easily twice her height. Respectfully, he picked her up around the middle and raised her to his level.

Herel put her arms around Potebt’s shoulders, and lay a polite peck on his cheek. She did not let go of his shoulders in a hurry. She rather missed platonic touch. It was not as common on any other world as it was on hers.

“It’s quite nice up here,” Herel said. 

“I shall let you stay a little while,” Potebt answered and did so for a few minutes. Then they made their way to the living room.

///

Sorve was clutching their stomach now, sweating, and feeling wretched.

“Is it too loud in here?” Luiperoo asked, completely attentive now. “Too warm? Too gender? I should open a window.”

“Good idea, Liuperoo,” Ke’sta said, gently steering the tipsy fellow out of the way. “It might help if you open a window.”

Sorve shook their head.

“I’ve eaten something bad,” they said. “I’m sure of it.”

Ke’sta thought for a moment, and then looked at the cheese platter. Liuperoo looked at the cheese platter.

“That’ll do it,” said Liuperoo. “Oops.”

Several visions of death by poison flashed through Sorve’s mind. There were, after all, berries that pesthry could eat and humans couldn’t. Maybe there were things that alien humans could eat and Gethenian humans couldn’t. But neither of the men in the room seemed to be alarmed enough to imply that a grim fate awaited Sorve, only concerned, and in that moment Sorve realized they trusted the two of them. 

They trusted all of these offworlders who seemed to be hearth-mates to each other, and were welcoming Sorve to their hearth too. Some of the hearths up north were built like fortresses, after all. Perhaps you could have a hearth that was a big metal ship. And you didn’t all need to be related in a hearth, though there were family relationships among the aliens too: the absent siblings out in Perunter, and the hairy man and his adult child. But there were always people in your hearth who weren’t related to you, like back home with Detres’ kemmering, like here with Mother’s new—

“It happens to me too,” Ke’sta was saying. “Milk products disagree with me. But there is medicine for this sort of thing. I keep it in my bathroom. I can share it with you.”

It struck Sorve that he was phrasing this as a gift rather than advice.

“Thank you,” said Sorve, while Ke’sta led them to the bathroom.

///

In the kitchen, Heo Hew and Genly sat talking. Heo Hew was absently spinning around a fruit bowl that sat on Ke’sta’s kitchen table, and Genly sat beside her, sipping a glass of water.

“I do get what you mean, yes,” Heo Hew was saying. “There’s a strangeness to it and a familiarity at once. Like you’ve never left, but you’ve also never been there?”

“Precisely,” Genly continued. “Not altogether comfortable, and yet not at all bad.”

“No, of course not bad,” Heo Hew agreed. “All in all, we wound up with a good crew. Ever hear about the folks who wound up on that nightmare mushroom?”

“Yeah,” said Genly darkly. “Can’t imagine.”

“Hmm,” said Heo Hew, now picking intently at a breadapple. “Even wish the Valderramas had been able to make it out here from Perunter, you know. I do miss them.”

Genly was about to agree, but at that moment Estraven entered the kitchen, and said,

“May I borrow your colleague for a second, Ms. Lang?”

“Certainly.”

“Is something the matter?” Genly asked, rising from his seat.

“No,” said Estraven, “but come here for a second. I have something to tell you.”

Genly followed Estraven into the corridor. It was empty, as was the study. No one but the two of them stood there. Estraven gestured for Genly to lower his head, as if to whisper in his ear, and when he bent his head to listen, he found himself pinned back against the wall, almost exactly under the drawing of the plant.

Estraven’s small, strong hands were pressed against his shoulders, and Estraven wore a thin smile on their face. They tilted their head to the side for a kiss, and Genly kissed them. Estraven kissed back, intense, fervid, a kiss that left Genly gasping for breath. He smiled at them, dazed, loveheaded, and then his face changed, struck by concern.

“Did that mean—Do you need me to take you home?” Genly asked. “What day is it?”

“No day in particular,” Estraven said innocently. “Next kemmer’s not for a while yet. I’m only honoring Terran traditions. Can’t I kiss you?”

“Like that?” Genly asked. “Yes, Therem. Yes, my god, you can.”

The full force of Estraven’s attention was fixed on him for the first time in days, and he was struck by the fanciful thought that he knew what plants felt like when they uncurled in the sun.

///

Sorve sat on the tiled floor of Ke’sta’s bathroom, feeling somewhat better after a couple pills and a drink of something thick, pink, and sweetish. The man was talking to them gently, soothingly, as the symptoms started to fade, sharing some of his coastal Hainish pueblo’s New Year’s traditions. New Year’s, in Ke’sta’s part of Hain, was marked in the middle of the summer.

“And the effigy of the old year,” he was saying, “is made of straw. So we set him on fire on a little raft and drag him out into the water for the waves to carry him off. It’s better luck if he’s carried off. If he washes back up on the beach when he’s still on fire…”

“Bad luck for the coming year?”

“For the coming hour, because then you have to drag him back out again.”

Sorve tried to picture it, because it sounded beautiful, but they couldn’t quite picture a version of the sea where the water wasn’t cold enough to kill you. They wound up picturing a warm bath the size of the lake between Estre and Stok. That sounded nice to them.

“And how about you, Sorve? What do you do for New Year’s in Karhide?”

“In the Handdara sense or the houseparty sense?”

“The houseparty sense.”

“Oh, we have the chase and the thirteen good things,” Sorve was saying. “Right before dawn, you open all the windows, and—”

They’d had an idea. 

“Why don’t I show you? We can do them here. I’ll show everyone. I’ll get my mother and then we’ll show everyone.”

///

Winter on Gethen is bright. Season is not a hemispheric effect but a global one, a result of the ellipsoid orbit. The dark of winter is the same dark of summer. Winter does not bring in early the night nor late the morning. It does, however, bring the cold, bitter and knifelike. The coldest hours are the small hours of the morning, but it seemed to Sorve that the aliens, even the furred ones, were more sensitive to cold than Gethenians. And Terrans seemed to place a lot of stock in midnight. Genly had said that they counted the start of a new calendar day at sixth hour, midnight instead of at the end of eighth hour, when the sun came up.

Getheny Thern, the start of winter and the start of the year, wouldn’t really start till morning. It was still Ottormenbod Grende. But did it matter? Perhaps days started when enough people agreed they started. They could start the chase now, and switch on all the lights at the end to pretend it was dawn.

Drunk on the New Year energy, as well as simply a tiny bit drunk, they rushed around the apartment.

“Mom,” they called, “we’re doing the chase! We’re doing the chase early! I’m going to teach the Ekumen people how to—”

They stopped. Genly and Estraven stood alone in the corridor, arms clasped, eyes only for each other, swaying slowly to some unheard song. There was something about that moment that didn’t feel right to interrupt. Genly was the first of the two to notice Sorve, and held out his hand to them. Then Estraven saw too, and held out their hand to Sorve as well. Sorve took both their hands. All huddled up close together, not one of the three of them said anything. What was there to say? It was clear now to Sorve that there were simply three of them, not two-and-another, and that there was no competition within Estraven between their roles towards Sorve and Genly; that there was no outranking because love did not admit rank.

“Genry,” said Sorve warmly. “Do you want to help me lead the chase?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about it,” Genly said. “I’ve heard of it but never seen it.”

“But you’ve been living in Karhide for years!”

“It’s a Kerm Land tradition, love,” Estraven answered. “It’s very local.”

“Well, let’s make it interplanetary,” said Sorve.

///

Everyone had gathered in the living room. Otie Nim dinged her fork on a fluted glass to get the group’s attention, and then sat down. Only Estraven and Sorve remained standing. All were quiet, their gazes fixed on parent and child.

“Right!” said Sorve, “so we’re going to do the chase. You’re supposed to do it just before dawn, but we can do it at midnight.”

“Still ritually valid,” thought Tsivun to herself aloud, nodding tipsily.

“Still party tradition valid,” Sorve clarified. “There’s symbolism, but it’s not a sacred thing. It’s like Otie’s Terran kissing plant.”

“I didn’t put it up for Otie!” Tsivun protested, at the same time as Liuperoo and Otie said, “I knew it!” and “I said it wasn’t me!”

“This is how you do the chase,” Estraven said, and once more the group’s attention was on them.

“It’s the chase of the cold itself. We start just before dawn, opening the windows to let the cold in, and run around to chase the cold out. Once someone breaks a sweat, then we all seal in the new warmth of the new year, close the windows, and relight the fire.”

“But we’re not doing it at dawn,” Sorve said, “so we’ll turn all the lights out and then turn them back on when we’re done. Then we’ll say the thirteen good things. I’ll explain when we get there.”

“When shall we start it?” asked Ke’sta.

Sorve smiled impishly.

“Right now!”

They flung a window open, and the cold wind gushed in, roaring.

“Lights out!” cried Sorve.

Genly had already turned the lights out in the rest of the apartment, and at Sorve’s word, he turned off the light in the living room.

“Oh, goodness, it  _ is _ cold!” a high voice complained.

“So get running!” another one answered.

It was more of a hasty shuffle around the apartment than a run, because it was a smaller space than a hearth and only Ke’sta really knew the layout well enough to navigate it in the dark. People kept bumping into each other and laughing and finally, when they had worked up the first hint of a sweat, someone turned the lights on and someone else closed the windows. Some of the people had put on their coats during the shuffle and sat in the living room huddled like pesthry.

“We’ll say the thirteen good things now,” Sorve announced. “There’s fourteen months in a year, so it’s thirteen things and then someone calls out ‘the year one’ at the end. There’s twelve of us here so I can start and end it.”

“Is it meant to be a specific set of values, things we are grateful for, or things we wish for in the coming year?” Ke’sta asked. “Or just things we particularly like?”

“Yes, any of that,” answered Sorve. “Just good things in general. You can’t go wrong with wishes but could be anything. Don’t think about it too much. Just say it off the top of your head. It’s fine if it’s generic. Health!”

“Oh, are we starting now?” somebody said.

“Forethought,” said Estraven

“Being here, being now,” Ong Tot said.

“Warmth!” cried Otie from the inside of a big furry coat. There were titters, but she was laughing too, not too proud not to laugh at herself.

“Good food,” said Atto, “specifically Tsivun’s kyossathas and Otie’s secret larder.”

“Love,” Genly said.

“Solidarity,” said Potebt.

“Peace,” said Luiperoo.

“The sky at night,” said Tsivun, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “with its unfamiliar, beautiful constellations.”

“I wish for Orgoreyn to agree to discontinue the institution of voluntary farms,” Herel said, and there was a general murmur of agreement.

“A good future for all our planets,” Ke’sta said.

“Our friends,” said Heo Hew.

“This hearth-hold,” said Sorve, gesturing at the whole room. “This family.”

“Oh, Sorve,” Estraven whispered, and drew their child tightly in their arms.

“Ah, you’re squeezing me,” whispered Sorve.

“So I am,” said Estraven, still holding them tightly.

“Mom, we haven’t said the year yet. The year! Someone’s got to say the year!”

“The Year One!” they said together.

And then it was time for everyone to wish each other a good Getheny Thern.

  
  
  



	3. Table of Characters

[I made a table](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1baT7xVYndm0QOdV8K1RRgNwUcEUT1XcH_YgjYuZY7q4/edit?usp=sharing)


End file.
